


Where Everything Slipped

by greenapricot



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-s9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 10:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15313422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenapricot/pseuds/greenapricot
Summary: Half eleven on a Saturday and James is confronting suspects in dark alleys. Of course, he is.





	Where Everything Slipped

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lucyemers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyemers/gifts).



> This fic grew out of a [hurt/comfort prompt meme](http://greenapricot.tumblr.com/post/175222777175/hurt-prompts) on Tumblr (further prompts welcome) in which Lucyemers asked for: "I've got you. Just stay awake for me, can you do that?" For James and Laura. 
> 
> The extent of my medical knowledge is limited to what I've seen on TV (so not terribly accurate). I apologize to any medical professionals who may read this and cringe at the inaccuracies.
> 
> A million thanks as always to Jack for the beta and Brit-pick. All remaining wonkiness is entirely my own.
> 
> Title from the song Slipped by The National.

Echoes of laughter follow Laura as she winds down the passage away from the Turf. This is one of her favourite things about Oxford, buildings and street corners and narrow lanes that have hardly been changed by the passing centuries. The way turning some corners is not unlike wandering into the past, save for the CCTV cameras and the tourists. She’d missed this. 

All right, maybe she is a bit tipsy. It’s too bad Robbie hadn’t come along with her, this particular get-together being more ‘night down the pub’ than ‘medical school reminisce’. Though she can’t say she blames him for begging off when the past couple of times have been the latter. They could be his friends too, her friends, but he doesn’t seem interested. 

She’d left him sitting at their kitchen table, saying he was going to finally pin James down for the pint they’ve been trying to have since she and Robbie returned from New Zealand. Or at least Robbie has been trying, James has been nothing but elusive. 

As she rounds the corner toward New College Lane a figure steps across the end of the passage ahead of her. Tall, slim, collar turned up, well-cut coat buttoned up against the early October chill; unmistakably James Hathaway. Laura is about to call out a greeting when she realises there’s someone else with him. Leaning against the opposite wall of the passage is another man, broader and a head shorter and not Robbie. 

James takes a step toward the man and Laura wonders if she’s about to witness the taciturn Inspector Hathaway in a romantic embrace. Is this the reason he’s been refusing invitations? James has to know she and Robbie would welcome any partner of his into their home. But then, knowing that and overcoming his tendency to never divulge anything about his private life are two very different things. 

James and the man are leaning close together now, their words filtering along the passage toward her in a heated low rumble. Then the man straightens against the wall, pushing into James’ personal space and James takes half a step back, looming as only a very tall man can; a posture designed to intimidate. How could she have ever mistaken this exchange for romantic? Half eleven on a Saturday and James is confronting suspects in dark alleys. Of course, he is. 

It happens in seconds—only five or so steps—stretched into slow-motion minutes as she continues toward them. The man’s posture changes, his hand moves to his pocket. Laura shouts and James turns toward her, his face catching the light, before the man steps forward, swinging his arm out in James’ direction. There is a flash of metal in the dark. 

James takes another step back, avoiding the knife, but the man pushes forward, shoving James hard with his other hand. James unbalances, his arm flailing out to break his fall, and his head connects with an iron drain pipe as he’s trying to get his footing. The man steps forward again slashing with the knife. James goes rigid, his hands going to his stomach, and he crumples to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. 

The man is gone out the end of the passage before Laura reaches James’ side and is kneeling next to him on the dirty cobbles. He is curled into himself, leaning against the stone wall and the drain pipe, his face hidden in shadow.

“James,” she says. He uncurls a bit, squinting up at her, his features contorted in a grimace of pain.

“Laura?”

“Yes,” she says. “Let me see, okay?” James nods then winces as his head brushes against the wall behind him. She’ll need to see to that as well, but first the knife wound. 

Laura gently moves James’ hands away to reveal a ragged slash in the fabric of his coat. She unbuttons it carefully, and the suit jacket and waistcoat beneath, to reveal a patch of blood slowly expanding across his white shirt. Laura yanks her scarf from around her neck, balling it up and pressing it to the wound before fumbling her mobile out of her pocket and dialling 999. She gives their location and the type of injury, informing them that James is a Detective Inspector to speed them along. 

“He got me good,” James says, scrunching his chin down, trying to get a better look at the wound. 

“I’m afraid so. Would have been worse without all these layers,” she says. “Good thing for you it’s not t-shirt weather.”

“My coat?” He’s been stabbed and he’s worried about his coat. 

“Likely repairable. But I’m more concerned about you. Can you hold this here?” she asks indicating the scarf. James nods, letting out a hiss of pain as he presses against the wound. Laura busies herself loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, then lifting James’ hands and the scarf out of the way before pulling his shirt open to asses the damage.

The wound is two inches long and oozing black blood in the dim light. Oozing, not gushing. The abdominal artery is intact. James is not going to bleed out in five minutes time. But she can’t tell how deep the slash is in the poor light. She’d opted not to bring her handbag for tonight’s outing so doesn’t have a torch, or a bandage, or tape, or a single first aid item save for the plasters in her purse.

“You didn’t happen to see how long the blade was?” she asks. That won’t tell her much, but it will tell her if there is a possibility that the blade nicked his intestine.

James shakes his head, wincing again.

As Laura carefully folds the layers of James’ clothes back over him and guides his hands and the scarf back over the wound, she can’t help but note the prominence of his ribs. He’s always been slim, but she’d wager there was a bit more meat on him seven months ago. Those waistcoats are now more than just a fashion statement. The concern she’d felt for him during six months of suspiciously cheery but sparse emails surges to the forefront. 

She had reassured herself—with Robbie backing her up, of course, because he defends James in everything—that James is an adult and can take care of himself. But that is clearly not the case. She suspects he’s been drinking his dinners and working too much without Robbie around to prod him off down the pub for a meal or home to bed. It’s Morse all over again. And no one is as cagey as James when asked if he is all right. She’s not letting him refuse any more dinner invitations after this.

“How bad is it?” James asks. He looks at once scared and defiant as if he’s prepared to deny her expertise if she tells him something he doesn’t want to hear. Not dissimilar to the look he gives her when her autopsy report doesn’t match up with his theory about a case.

“You’re not going to bleed out before the ambulance gets here,” she says, pulling his coat back around him to keep him warm. 

“But,” he prompts.

“But I can’t tell how deep it is, if he nicked your intestine…”

“No need to sugarcoat it, Doctor.”

“I’m not—” Oh. How worried is she that she’s mistaken his sarcasm for sincerity? Laura removes her own coat and drapes it over him.

James squints down at her coat, covering him like a blanket, then looks back up at her, his brow creased in concern.

“You’ll get cold,” he says, his words are a bit slurred. He may have hit his head a lot harder than it looked. Unless… 

“Have you been drinking?”

“’M not on duty.” 

“The fact that you’re confronting suspects would say otherwise,” she says, reaching under the coat to take the scarf from him and continue applying pressure to the wound. 

When James looks like he wants to argue with her, she purses her lips. He lets out a sigh followed quickly by a wince.

“Didn’t mean to. He was just— I stopped for a pint.” Laura raises an eyebrow, and James continues. “A few pints. Saw Willinger at the other end of the bar. Followed him when he left. Must have seen me, though,” James shakes his head, seemingly disappointed in his inability to follow a suspect without being spotted even when off duty and a few pints in. “He cut through the Turf. I caught up to him here,” James makes a weak gesture toward the walls of the passage. “Guess he was anticipating that.”

Laura feels a momentary pang of guilt—if only she’d seen James on his way past the Turf—followed immediately by anger at him for going after a suspect on his own without calling for backup. Willinger, according to what Robbie said yesterday, is the top suspect in a spate of near-fatal stabbings James and Lizzie have been working on for the past two weeks. When James recovers from the stab wound she’s going to throttle him.

“Where’s Lizzie?” Laura asks. 

“Home. ‘S Saturday.” He gives her a look that challenges her to accuse him of overworking his sergeant. Well, good job he’s not doing that, but he’s clearly overworking himself, dressed for work on a Saturday.

Laura gives him a hard look. 

“Lizzie’s going to be angry as well,” he says.

“I’m not angry,” Laura says, trying for calm.

“You look angry.”

“I’m concerned. Where’s your phone?” Laura asks. James looks confused, then pats the pocket of his coat before wincing at the motion. “Did you even think to call for backup?”

“Oh,” he says. The thought never occurred to him. Definitely going to throttle him.

“Try to remember that next time. Try to not have there be a next time.”

“Yes, ‘m,” James mumbles, looking abashed. She’d be a damn sight better at this if she hadn’t also had more than a few drinks tonight. She can’t seem to keep the frustration out of her voice, and James is taking it as admonishment, not concern. But that’s his default state, isn’t it? To assume that he has wronged someone, not that anyone might be worried for him.

“Oh James, I’m sorry. There are people out there who care about you, okay?” 

James isn’t looking at her anymore, the corners of his mouth turned down. 

“Sorry,” James mumbles, if he bends his head any further forward in shame he’s going to topple over into her lap.

“It’s all right,” Laura says, “You’re all right. Just turn your head a bit for me, okay?” James obliges and she runs gentle fingers over the back of his skull, short hair, slightly longer hair, and warm stickiness at the crown. He did get a good knock, then. It’s too dark to see clearly, but with the amount of blood on her hand when she pulls it away she’d be very surprised if he doesn’t have a concussion.

“You’ve got blood on you,” he says as she wipes her hand on her trousers. “More blood.”

“I’ve had worse.” Laura eases his head back against the wall; if she wasn’t already using her scarf to slow the bleeding she’d use it to cushion his head. James looks like he’s having trouble focusing, his eyes flutter closed, then open again. 

“Hey,” she says, putting her hand on his cheek. “Stay with me, okay?”

“It’s good to have you back,” James says, gazing up at her bleary-eyed. “Both of you.”

He’s got a strange way of showing it with all his ignoring of her dinner invitations and Robbie’s texts. She bites back the urge to chastise him further. He’s looking more and more out of it by the moment. Where the hell is that ambulance? Laura glances at her watch, it’s been barely three minutes since she dialled 999. Nothing like a crisis to slow time down to a crawl.

“You could accept my dinner invitations,” she says. “Then we might be able to tell.” 

James gives a small nod of acknowledgement, the sort designed to get her to drop it. She will for now, but she’s not going to forget. He turns his head, looking behind her down the passage as if he’s looking for someone. Robbie. He’s looking for Robbie. 

“He’s at home,” she says, and James relaxes a bit. 

If only Robbie had managed to have that pint with James, he would be here with them right now. Or they wouldn’t be here at all. Robbie, at least, would have had the sense to call for backup. 

He and James haven’t worked a single case together in the month they’ve been back. She’s pretty sure that’s deliberate on James’ part, despite his assertion that it’s good to have them back. It’s weighed on Robbie, though. He seems to miss James’ company more now that they are in the same city than he had the whole time they were in New Zealand. As if James being out of reach due to his workaholic tendencies is worse than half a world of distance between them. 

There were things that Laura didn’t miss during their six months away from Oxford, but spending time with James wasn’t one of them. 

“Okay,” James says, with a sigh. “I’d hoped…”

“I could ring him.” 

James shakes his head, rolling it back and forth against the wall and wincing, then looks up at her, wistful. “No— no. Just tell him— Tell him I’m sorry.” His eyes flutter closed but he keeps talking. “After you two… I never should have stayed… It wasn’t fair to you with me… And I wasn’t— I’m sorry. It’s better this way… Just tell him…” James trails off his head lolling to the side. 

“James. Hey. I’ve got you. Just stay awake for me, can you do that? You can tell him yourself.”

His eyes flutter open again, he looks so sad, so lost. “I’m glad he’s got you,” he says, “If it couldn’t be me, I’m just glad it’s you.” This is the concussion talking, or the shock, or the alcohol, on top of the punishing work schedule he’s been keeping. 

It may be the concussion talking, but the concussion isn’t the root of it. She’s suspected off and on over the years, even mentioned it to Robbie once or twice, but he dismissed it out of hand. With the look on James’ face now, frightened and in pain and thinking his injury worse than it is despite her reassurances, she has no doubt that he is in love with Robbie. 

Oh, James. How long has he been pining away? The two of them are so close Robbie behaved like he was missing a limb the first month they were away, and yet they never talk. Well, once James is recovered she’s going to make sure they do. Whether they want to or not.

“You’re going to be all right, James. You’ll see Robbie again soon.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to…” James nods and his eyes start to drift closed again. He still thinks she’s feeding him platitudes.

“You are going to be fine, James. The ambulance will be here any minute.” Laura takes one hand off the scarf and places it reassuringly on his upper arm. He blinks up at her.

“I didn’t mean to, you know,” James says, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. “I tried not to. Especially after the two of you… when I was in Kosovo. So I went…”

“You went for a walk,” Laura finishes.

“Yeah,” James says with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to come back. But I couldn’t not— I didn’t—” he makes a face, confused. “I didn’t have that much to drink.” 

“You hit your head pretty hard, not to mention the stab wound. You’re in shock and you very likely have a concussion.”

“Oh,” James shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “Will— Will I remember any of this?”

“I don’t know,” Laura says.

“But you will. And now that—” he shakes his head again, then grimaces, the corners of his mouth turning down again. “I’ll have to go.”

“No. James. There’s no need for you to go anywhere. Okay?” 

James’ frown deepens. “But you and Robbie— You won’t—” 

“You let Robbie and me worry about Robbie and me. You’re fine, okay. Everything is going to be fine.” It will be. She’s not going to lose her friend just because he happens to be in love with her boyfriend, not to mention the fact that James cutting ties would break Robbie’s heart. “When you get out of hospital you’re staying at ours so I can keep an eye on you.”

“I can’t ask you—”

“No arguing,” Laura says. “Arguing is bad for stab wounds.”

James gives half a chuckle that turns into a painful gasp, but there’s just the hint of a smile on his lips. 

“Okay?” Laura prompts, adjusting the pressure on the wound. She can hear a siren steadily drawing closer. 

“Okay,” James says. He looks resigned but not resistant. It’s a start. His eyes flutter closed again. 

Flashing lights play off the sides of the passage as the ambulance pulls up on the street outside. A door slams and Laura turns toward the two paramedics coming down the passage with a wheeled stretcher. She glances at her watch, it’s only been six minutes. James is going to be fine.

_____


End file.
